D K's comments (member since May 09, 2009)

D K's comments from the Book Excerpts group.

Thanks for your comments. You've encouraged me to post a few more chapters.

Margaret was out of the building. She laughed at a joke Tommy, the security guard told as she headed to the car even though she thought the joke was lame. This related back to her years of growing up in an orphanage. It was best to stay on everyone’s good side, be it laughing at bad jokes or tolerating someone’s stupidity. You never knew when you might need them. When she met Mathew thirteen years ago, she had used that very philosophy to win his heart.
Mathew left the army with an honorable discharge and high hopes for his future, after four years as an officer in the military. While serving, he was approached by a representative of the CIA and asked to join the organization. He accepted enthusiastically. It had been a decision he kept from everyone. His first undercover assignment had been overseas in China posing as a low-level clerk in the American Embassy.
Margaret was in China at the same time translating Chinese to English for the American ambassador. Each day she passed Mathew in the corridor, he would ask her to have coffee with him. Each day, she would refuse. At the time, she had her eye on the ambassador who had been recently widowed. He was on the short-list to be transferred to Washington, where upon his arrival he would receive a high-level position.
Despite her constant refusals, Mathew persisted. Finally, to end his steady onslaught of queries, she relented. A decision she never regretted. Two months later after making passionate love, Mathew broke protocol and told her he was working for the CIA. The months of lying about who he really was would have infuriated any other woman, but Margaret seemed pleased by the information. A year later they were married. Mathew used his influence to secure her a job with NASA and they had both been on the fast track in life as well as in their jobs.
Margaret slid behind the wheel of the red Lexus. She retrieved the cell phone from her purse and dialed home. Marshall picked up on the first ring. Mathew’s voice, somewhat distant from the receiver, was in the background telling their son to bring him the phone. Margaret smiled hearing her husband’s voice. “Hello.”
“Hey, honey. It’s me. Letting you know, I’m on the way home,” she paused, adding, “As promised.”
“This must be the cold day in hell,” he joked.
“Don’t be silly. I’ll be home soon. Love you, hon.”
“Love you, too.”
Cutting the connection, she dropped the phone back into her purse. Her stomach growled. She hadn’t had anything but energy bars and Gatorade the entire day, opting to do her regular workouts during lunch rather than eat. She did not regret the decision, she had the body of an Olympic runner as a reward. Her stomach growled again as she started the car. At home, Mathew would have dinner ready. She would, of course, reward him for his valiant effort after the kids were asleep.
The engine purred as she raced off the NASA facility grounds. Turning on the CD player, Margaret listened to Toby Keith’s, Honkytonk University. A minute into the song, she sang off-key along with Toby Keith.
“…A stay can't burn forever
And the brightest ones will someday lose their shine
But the glass won't ever be
Half empty in my optimistic mind...”
As she neared the freeway, a dark pick-up was moving fast in her rearview mirror. The truck nearly hit her as it veered into the next lane. She blew her horn as the vehicle shot past her.
The truck swerved into her lane just ahead of her and began slowing. Margaret cursed. She was so fixated on the driver ahead of her; she did not notice the second similar colored truck closing in on her rear. The pickup in front of her slammed on its brakes. Reacting quickly, she tried to steer the Lexus away in another direction. The truck behind her slammed into the Lexus bumper, forcing her car back toward the first pickup.
She heard herself screaming as the car crashed into the bumper of the stopped pickup. The airbags deployed as her head lurched forward. The Lexus engine shut off. Heart racing, she did not panic. Pushing her way past the airbag, she opened the car door. Two men stood on opposite sides of the car. Their gazes ominous. They started to approach. Kicking off her high-heel shoes, Margaret sprinted in the direction of nearby traffic.
One of the men said, “Get the subject.”
The subject?
Not having time to think about its meaning, she focused on making it to some place safe. One of the men gave chase but could not keep up. Hope began to emerge. A sudden sharp sting pinched the nape of her neck. Becoming lightheaded, her legs began to swagger.
Did I hit my head?
No memory of striking her head against anything but the airbag came to mind. The pinching sensation in her neckline grew more encompassing. Reaching back, she felt the area. She touched something protruding from her neck. She pulled it out and brought it around to look at it, confused by what she saw.
Margaret spun around falling to her knees. It was a tranquilizer dart in her hand. She finally understood. In her fog, she watched the two men approaching. They grabbed her by the arms and began carrying her back toward their trucks.
“Where…aa…are…yu…you…tak..taking…me?” Margaret was not sure if the words actually came out of her mouth. She was so weak and could barely think, let alone speak.
They placed her in the passenger seat of the second truck. She overheard the men discussing what they were going to do with her car. The man from the first truck disappeared from Margaret’s sight. The second man jumped into the driver’s seat. He ran his hand through her long blonde hair so that he could see her face. Through her haze, she saw the man staring at her shaking his head.
“What a waste.” Margaret heard him say before drifting into darkness.

Chapter Two

Langley, Virginia – Tuesday, October 11

At the NASA Langley Research Center, Deputy Director Margaret Crane rubbed her weary eyes. She had been reading Safety-Violation reports for the past five hours and was nowhere near finished. Glancing at the time on her computer screen, Margaret decided to stop for the evening. Her husband Mathew already admonished her for missing far too many meals with the family.
Mathew’s work schedule was as busy as hers. As a Section Chief in the Central Intelligence Agency, he always found a way to make it home for dinner. That’s what Margaret loved best about Mathew--his dedication to family. He’d often argue that his loyalties were placed in the following order: God, country, family.
Margaret, of course, knew this to be a total sham. How often had Mathew skipped an important meeting when one of his children called and said they needed him? How many times had she gone on a last minute business trip, leaving him to take care of the household alone? Margaret at times felt envious of Mathew. She longed to devote more time to her husband and children.
Margaret knew very well how she rated her responsibilities. Her career always came first and foremost. Mathew also knew this and accepted it. At least most of the time--lately, he’d been putting his foot down. Every night she had been getting home after the children were in bed and leaving before they rose in the morning. Her alibi was the piles of paperwork building on her desk. In reality, she had been bucking for the job of Director of the NASA Engineering and Safety Center. The current Director, David Sullivan, would be retiring soon. Mathew assured her she was a shoe-in, but Margaret never took anything for granted. That included a short affair with the retiring Director. With that, there were wild nights, passionate words, and solid promises made by him.
Logging off her computer, Margaret leaned back in her chair and stared at the photograph of her husband and their twins, Marsha and Marshall. A twinge of guilt swept over her. Was sleeping with David in hopes for a promotion worth the shame she felt? What drove her to do it? All of NASA’s upper echelon liked and admired her already. Like Mathew said, she was a shoe-in for the job.
Shaking the uncomfortable thoughts away, Margaret stood. Some shames have no penitence. In a few days, she would be named Director of the NESC. David would be long forgotten living somewhere in sunny Florida. Her family would never be the wiser. At least that was how she justified her action. Had it been worth it? The eyes in the family photo stared back at her threatening to renew her guilty conscience. Tearing her gaze away, she finally decided. Yes, it had been worth it.
Stepping into the hallway her attention drifted over to the dark empty room next to hers. It was David Sullivan’s. Staring, she slipped into a reverie. At 38, she would be the youngest person to hold the prestigious position of Director. Her image reflected back from the glass. The thought of dying her long blonde hair a darker color seemed an advantageous move. Men would respect a woman with dark hair. Green eyes observed the attire currently covering her body--it would need changing. A new wardrobe would be required--one that reflected the power of her new position. She smiled, delighted at the new image she foresaw and the new suit she was wearing in a future not too distant.

The blurb for The Friday House:

The Cold War ended almost two decades ago but the fruits of its labor still exist. The Central Intelligence Agency's ‘Resurrection Project', shut down since before the fall of the Berlin wall, laid dormant and was all but forgotten—until now.

Without warning or explanation, prominent American citizens began carrying out horrendous crimes. Immediately after these acts, they would kill themselves. FBI Special Agent JAMAICA KURTZ, upon her return to duty after a six month medical leave, is immediately assigned to conduct a profile of these killers. In the meantime, the United States is threatened by a new fanatical group called the RSFA. President RONALD MOSS a man with good intentions must make hard decisions that will not only affect this country but those closest to him. All the killers have one thing in common, The Friday House Orphanage. What secrets does this place hold and will Special Agent Jamaica Kurtz find out the truth in time to stop more attacks?

It's a murder mystery. I guess I should have given a short description of the story before I posted the excerpt. LOL. Okay, here's a blurb of Lost Hours:

On Father's Day 1982, a twelve year old was blamed for the multiple stabbing death of his father. The boy had no memory of doing it. He was convicted of murder and sentenced to two years at a mental hospital. Twenty-three years later, now a private detective and a father. His son is the same age as Joe was when he was accused of murder. This prompts Joe Hooks to discover what really happened that day two decades ago. Did he kill his own father or had something else happened?

As he searches for the truth, he must deal with an uncooperative Detroit police force, rekindle his strained relationship with his siblings, protect his love one's from the threats of a mysterious stranger and live with the knowledge his estrange wife is sleeping with another man.

Finding out the truth might prove deadly for Joe.

The Friday House (Thriller)

Darrin Davenport awoke as he always had, promptly at five a.m. He slipped out of bed without disturbing his wife, Colette. Entering the bathroom, he glanced back at his image in the large mirror mounted on the back of the door.
Not bad for forty, he thought.
Potbellies and turkey wattles drooping underneath the chin were the burdens afflicting his associates. He kept himself as fit as a twenty-year old sprinter and was proud of himself for keeping at it all these years. He kept a regular regimen of exercise and ate a healthy diet, thus avoiding the pitfalls of aging endured by his friends.
Colette he remembered had called him anal on many occasions. He gave an inward grin and then turned away from the reflection. Throwing on his jogging suit, he reentered the bedroom, noticed the contours of Colette’s body beneath the blanket and smiled. Five years of marriage and she was as sexy as ever.
They met the year before they married, during a city council campaign rally—her rally in fact. She was running against the incumbent, Becky Shettler. Darrin, an FBI Special Agent, always had a desire to go into politics, but never followed through on his dream. He felt compelled to find a candidate to support. And did he ever--when he locked gazes with Colette for the very first time. The energy instantly resonated between them. They dated--he helped her run a successful campaign--they made passionate love and a year later, they were married.
In their time together, both had prospered in their respective careers: Colette, a senator and he a Special Agent in Charge with the FBI. Darrin knew he had flown through the ranks with the agency because of Colette’s influence. It did not bother him one bit. In fact, he would have chosen to use her political power to an even greater extent for his career if she had not frowned upon it.
He could hear Toby, his German shepherd, nails clattering on the tile as he entered the hallway. They ran together each morning and the dog waited patiently at the foot of the stairs. After descending the stairway, Darrin greeted Toby by rubbing his hand through the dog’s fur and patting him.
“Good boy, right on time.”
Toby licked his master’s hand as though in agreement.
Darrin crossed the foyer to the front entrance with the dog trailing diligently behind him. At the door, Toby stopped, taking a protecting posture and began to growl. He stared at the dog curiously.
“What’s wrong, boy?” He asked concern in his voice. The German shepherd slowly backed away from the door. Reaching for the dog’s collar he tried to steady Toby. “It’s all right, boy. Everything’s going to be okay.”
The German shepherd’s eyes remained fixed at the door.
Darrin turned in the direction of the entry. A light tapping sounded on the door, twice. The dog’s growls grew. He wondered, who would knock on the door at this hour, he knew it was no one with good news.
Releasing Toby’s collar, he crossed into the living room and retrieved a pistol he had hidden beneath the fireplace poker holder. He had concealed guns throughout the house on every floor unbeknownst to Colette. She always thought weapons did more harm than good. For years, she’d been an advocate for greater gun control laws and often took on opposing members of the senate. It was a wonder she ever married a man whose job required him to carry one.
Two raps came at the door again. Stuffing the pistol underneath the folds of his sweat jacket, he walked over to it as another two raps sounded, this time louder. Whoever it was grew impatient.
“Who is it?” Darrin called out.
No answer.
He dug a hand into his sweat jacket, taking hold of the pistol. His other hand held onto the doorknob.
It wasn’t the fact the knocks came at his door at such an early hour or the rashness of the pounding that unnerved him so; it was his dog. He’d never reacted this way before. Toby moved to his master’s side ready to attack.
“Good, boy,” he whispered.
As he turned the door handle, he half expected the person on the other end to have a shoulder pressed against the door trying to force his way in. No such action came about. Where he had anticipated staring into a face, he instead gaped into a barreled chest. He saw that in the entryway stood a large dark figure of a man.
“Can I help you?” He asked uneasily.
The stranger had not offered any type of hospitality or even tried to explain why he even stood at the door. He simply showed the whites of his teeth as he put on a mirthless smirk.
When the stranger took a step forward without so much as a word, Darrin drew the gun from his jacket and aimed it at the man’s chest.
“Who the hell are you and what do you want?”
Lightning fast, the man’s arm struck out of nowhere. The movement betrayed his size. A powerful palm folded over Darrin’s gun hand and began squeezing, gripping it like a vice. Dropping to a knee, winching in pain, the pistol tumbled to the floor. With his free hand, Darrin punched his fist into the large man’s crotch.
The smirk disappeared from his face, replaced with a heated scowl.
With fangs showing, Toby hurled himself at the big man. The man was ready. He stepped aside quickly with his captive in tow, letting the dog fly beyond the doorway and into the view of a smaller man standing on the walkway just outside the porch.
Gun in hand, sound suppressor attached to its tip, the second man fired once. The weapon barely made a noise. Toby yelped as the hot metal punched through his flesh. The German shepherd’s body, flinched, lost its momentum and dropped hard from the air, falling to one side on the porch.
Clamping his free hand on his captive’s shoulder, the giant yanked the other man’s arm, drawing him up and in as easily as an adult pulling on a small child. Releasing his iron grip, he moved his grasp to the FBI agent’s other shoulder, immobilizing him. He was defenseless against the strength of the larger man. The last thing he saw before his world went dark was the man thrusting his forehead toward his own.

I looked intently at the image trapped inside the rearview mirror and saw a man drained of fortitude. Dark lines charted a timeline beneath his eyes like rings of a tree. I could almost map the long weeks of restlessness to the very minute. Blowing out a long breath, I shifted my gaze to the house. I stayed put within the safe haven of the car watching the home we once shared. I was indecisive on whether I should remain inside or leave its warmth for the cold response I would most certainly receive at the door. Everything I cherished lay before me. All I had to do was swallow my pride and step out.

On the second floor, light escaped through a bedroom blind that had suddenly been cracked. Someone was at the window peering out. It was still black outside, and the dark tone of the Mustang made it invisible. I waited until the upstairs light had faded before turning the key and starting the car. I was confident my being there had never been detected.

I drove downtown and pulled over beside a broken parking meter near the corner of Washington Boulevard not far from the convention centers or from the meeting I had later. I felt a need to get some air before my engagement and decided a stroll would clear the dust from my head. It wasn't the first time I'd done this—in the many months since the separation, it had become a place for me to think and to enjoy the stars. Civic Center Drive was peaceful at that hour. There was the occasional shuffling of homeless people that slept in dark places disrupting the quiet but they were only minor distractions.

Street lamps lit the direction down the walkway. The path had a view of the Detroit River and beyond that, resided Canada . Darkness cloaked the reflective water but across the river the city lights of Windsor glistened as if it were the Emerald City Dorothy had sought. At dock, was the Detroit Princess—its decks—dark and quiet. The old styled riverboat, a new attraction to the city, promised entertainment by way of pleasant cruises, spirited music, fine food and drinks. None of which I was in the mood for. I passed the boat with barely a glance.

Stopping close to Hart Plaza , I stared at the stone set of steps that led up to it and remembered the many events Nina, Jamaal and I shared here. We enjoyed ethnic festivals, music concerts, and fireworks. The showground's desolate, empty seats and the waterless fountain in its center mirrored the seclusion I felt in my heart. I faced away and leaned against the security barricade dividing the pavement and the river. My gaze turned upward beyond Windsor 's towering structures made of steel and mortar, and escaped to the heavens. The translucent sky had surrendered itself to the stars. It was a perfect vista of the cosmos, and I was left breathless. It was a moment I wished to share with my son. Regret began to permeate inside me. I should have gotten out of the car—should have talked to my wife—should be there to wake my son for school.

There was a great deal of things I should have—could have done my entire life. Bad decisions surrounded me like a pack of hungry wolves, and I was so tired of it. I spent a lot of time that morning reflecting and wondered if what I was about to pursue would be another regret piled on top of the others. But how could I avoid it? The nightmares were getting worse. My thoughts were interrupted when I heard the sounds of the city starting to wake. The stars had begun their slow retreat and first light embarked on its ascent into the heavens. A chilly early morning October breeze that I had not noticed before during my walk reminded me I had somewhere to be.

Crossing Hart Plaza , I tried not to think of the past. This was a problem in itself, since the answers about the past were what I actually sought. When I reached Jefferson and Woodward, the streets were congested with traffic and hurried people rushed to work. The solitude I enjoyed retreated with the night. It would have taken me ten or fifteen minutes to walk to police headquarters, but I had walked enough and decided to move the Mustang closer to the station. I turned back toward the water and stared out at Windsor . With the daylight, it had lost its majesty—the yellow brick road led not to a magical place where a wizard could fix my problems—but to another city with troubles of its own.